Ghosts
by DrAgOnLOvEr34
Summary: The wind started blowing, leaves blurred around in the air. A tear dropped from Harry's eyes. He touched his face, surprised. He thought he had lost the ability to cry a long time ago. He guessed he hadn't. A bitter chuckle escaped his throat. WARNING! death, dark story, and angst! WARNING


_**WARNING CHARACTER DEATH! I wrote this really fast and I really like it. **_

_**I do not own Harry Potter**_

**Ghosts**

Harry looked outside blankly. Everything looked so grey and dead. He couldn't even remember what color things were anymore. All of this pain and emptiness he was feeling was his fault. He was the one who brought it upon him. In some way, he welcomed it. He embraced it. He wanted it. It made him feel alive again, like he once was. But it would never be the same.

They were all gone. Everything single person he cared about, were gone. Everywhere he went, he saw memories of things they did together. He saw them so clearly, that sometimes he tried to reach out to them. He tried to talk to them. But once he managed to touch them, he fell right through. It always brought a cold chill to him. Every time he tried to hug them, Harry was met with nothing but air. So, he just sat back and watched the memories of better times. He saw the innocence they once had, and it made him sad, because they lost that. When he was in the Gryffindor Common Room, he saw Ron and him playing chess.

A ghost of a smile graced Harry's bloody, chapped lips. Ron always beat him. He was a brilliant strategist, even if he didn't think so. Harry wished that Ron had realized how much he had come to value their friendship. Whenever they were in a sticky situation dealing with anything, Harry could turn to Ron for an escape plan.

Ron had died a hero, something he and Harry had talked about late at night. They said to each other, that the only death they would accept would be a hero's death. Ron had died saving his whole family. He had protected them before a killing curse had been cowardly thrown at his turned back. He had died with a smile on his face.

Whenever he was in a library, searching for ways to turn back time, or to even bring someone back from the dead, he thought of Hermione. She would of found the answer by now. Harry was sure of it. She had always been bright; the brightest witch of their generation. Harry had always pictured Hermione changing things in the Wizarding World after the war. She would have done so much good if her life had not been cut short. All the things she could of done are not possible now and its Harry's fault.

Hermione had died peacefully. They had been searching for some sort of potion that would help them win the war, and Hermione, for once, was incorrect, and she died because of it. It was kind of morbid, if you thought about it. The one time she was wrong killed her.

The wind started blowing, leaves blurred around in the air. A tear dropped from Harry's eyes. He touched his face, surprised. He thought he had lost the ability to cry a long time ago. He guessed he hadn't. A bitter chuckle escaped his throat.

Neville was also dead. Harry was surprised when he died. He had been one of the last that had survived with Harry. Whenever he needed some quiet moments, Harry went to find Neville in the Greenhouses. Something that his relatives never realized was known by Neville. Harry loved to plant things. When people died, he would plant something, because instead of him killing something, he was bringing life.

Neville was killed by one of the only things he still found joy in, a very ironic and cruel death. A vine had suspended Neville in midair and his life was slowly chocked out of him. The things that had originally brought Neville great joy ended his life. Harry hadn't cut the plant off in time. He never plants things anymore. Every time he tries, he pictured Neville, slowly but surely dying, and every time Harry ran to him to help, Neville appeared father away. It was a never ending chase that Harry always lost.

Watching the leaves swirl in the air, Harry pictured Luna. Luna had always been a free soul; someone who could never be tied down by anyone. Many people tried and they all failed. When she walked or pranced around, she always seemed to be floating on air. So carefree about everything. Her death was the bloodiest and the slowest of them all. Harry had been forced to watch. He saw it every night when he closed his eyes. He saw her once bright and alive eyes turn blank once she had finally given up.

Suddenly, Harry started sobbing, and he couldn't stop. They tore through his chest, to a point where he started dry heaving. It was his entire fault. They had counted on him and he had failed. He was so so sorry. A scream of anguish ripped from his throat.

"Hermione, do you think he is ever going to wake up?" Ron asked sadly, as he gazed at the still body of his best friend on the infirmary bed. He started pacing when she just looked at him with tear filled eyes, and shook her head.

"Why doesn't he wake up?" demanded Ron as he pulled her into his chest for a hug.

"Whatever spell they used on him Ron, makes it so he can never wake up. He is stuck in his worst nightmare. Every single negative thing he ever thought about himself, he is now hearing it. Every single dark thing that has happened to him or someone he loved or that he has even imaged is happening to him again and again. There is no end to his torment, because there is no known cure."

"We should have been there for him! He was always there for us! WHY WEREN'T WE THERE FOR HIM?" Ron bellowed red in the face, "Why weren't we there for him? "he repeated brokenly, head now in his hands.

"It's all our fault." whispered Neville from the other side of the bed, where he was holding a misty eyed Luna.

The statement was echoed in all of their minds, and a great silence fell upon them all. It was all their fault.


End file.
